


Let’s Say I Do (I Do)

by xsilverdreamsx



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Fake Marriage, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4713131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were, perhaps some things worse that this, Arthur thinks, as he glares at the letter in his hand with his name printed clearly in bold ink, indicating his presence in two weeks for his esteemed marriage to one William H. Eames, III, at St. Catherine's Church in London, England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s Say I Do (I Do)

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by clocks who deserves all the cookies for saito's lines, all further mistakes here are mine  
> warnings: references to being drunk, saito, crack so much crack i’m sorry

There were, perhaps some things worse that this, Arthur thinks, as he glares at the letter in his hand with his name printed clearly in bold ink, indicating his presence in two weeks for his esteemed marriage to one William H. Eames, III, at St. Catherine's Church in London, England.

The next thing he does is call Eames up to yell at him.

“Eames, you asshole,” he snaps when the phone goes to voicemail. “Get your ass down to Paris _now_.” And then he hangs up, before sending a few angry messages on his phone.

When Arthur opens his front door to find Eames lounging in the hallway, looking every bit the thief and conman that he is, he spends two seconds glaring at the forger before snapping out with a terse and annoyed, “You’re late.”

“I’ll have you know, darling, that teleportation has yet to be invented,” Eames responds easily, sending Arthur his most winsome smile that should _not_ make Arthur’s heart flutter a little.

“London isn’t exactly the other end of the planet,” Arthur responds sarcastically, ignoring the flutter and eventually deciding to step aside to let him in, lest his neighbours decide to be nosy and snoop on them. “I left you that voicemail exactly four days ago.”

“Yes, well - you know how it is, Mother insisted on my opinion in practically everything, right down to the colors of the bridesmaid’s dress and the flowers in the church,” Eames strides in and pats -- actually _pats_ \-- Arthur’s butt, before taking his seat on the couch. “I thought the lilies were perhaps a trite overdone it so I went with baby’s breath and roses instead, if you were wondering.”

“Eames,” Arthur grits out. “We’re not getting married.”

“But our deposit--”

“Getting married would indicate that I had actually said yes, which I have not,” Arthur interrupts.

Eames beams at him. “Actually, darling, you _have_ said yes.” He pauses. “Actually, you might have cried too, but I try not to dwell on the details."

After a long moment, Arthur narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, I _cried_?”

 

*

There is a reason behind all of this, and it’s one which Arthur eventually drags out of Eames, after threatening to shoot him in the kneecaps -- “ _I don’t need a PASIV to extract the details from you, Eames_ ” -- while making him listen to Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ on repeat.

“ _Vivaldi_ ,” Eames repeats, looking scandalized.

“The story, Eames,” Arthur reminds him, nudging his knee with his foot not-so-gently.

The story, as it turns out, is about Eames’ mother, her Sunday brunch socialite status, and a very devious and very opportunistic Penelope Worthington, who saw Eames as her ticket out of her drab middle-class existence and into the upper class ranks of socialites.

“I don’t get it,” Arthur interrupts, when Eames is in the midst of describing his conversation with his mother, “why can’t you just say ‘no’?”

“Well,” Eames begins, and then he proceeds to explain why.

Out of some misplaced fear that her son was incapable of finding his own wife, Margaret Eames had drawn up a contract stating that should he be unmarried by the time he reached the age of thirty-five, he would agree to enter into a union of his family’s choice, lest he forfeit his inheritance. Back then, Eames had been fifteen and perhaps a little stupid, and thought nothing of the implications as he signed the document.

He would be thirty-five next month, and Eames was well aware that as archaic as the entire arrangement was, he couldn’t very well avoid his own mother. She was ten times more resourceful than he was; this was apparent from the way she could still track him down, two years after he had left England, to remind him that his driving license would expire in a few months and did he receive the tin of biscuits she had sent last month to his Mombasa address, by the way?

(How she had found out about the place, he had no clue, but he had learnt to stop being amazed by her abilities at a young age.)

So by some devious means, Eames had gotten Arthur splendidly drunk and proposed to him, to which Arthur did say yes, before turning around and throwing up, also splendidly, on Eames’ favorite couch, before passing out in Eames’ lap.

He even filmed it, as proof. Arthur plots to hunt down the master copy of the video and destroy it, one day.

“I’m still thinking I should just shoot you,” Arthur mutters darkly, two days later when he’s standing in front of a cake shop somewhere in Soho. There’s a giant sign in front of it, adorned with pink bows and ribbons and kittens.

_Kittens._ Arthur feels his allergies creeping up on him from just looking at the cardboard cutouts, before he’s being ushered in by Eames into the shop.

He leaves, an hour later, feeling an early bout of diabetes creeping up on him from sampling over forty-two different types of cake flavors and frostings, while Eames prattles on about their six-tiered wedding cake that was, thankfully, void of any kittens.

 

*

As the day draws near, they end fighting over everything, right down to the color of Eames’s shoes - “You can’t wear a _white suit_ with _white shoes_ , what are you, Kanye?” - and Arthur’s choice of desserts for the reception - “Tacos, Arthur, _tacos_?”. Their arguments are loud and vindictive, with a few nasty words thrown in occasionally, and every time Arthur wonders if they’ll survive by the time the wedding day arrives.

 

*

The wedding does take place eventually, and while Arthur hates the flowers and thinks that mint-green is a terrible color for the bridesmaid’s dress, he admits (secretly, never loudly) that Eames actually does look good. In fact, he looks _handsome_ , a word that Arthur’s never thought of using before to describe Eames.

“I think I’m falling sick,” he tells Ariadne when she finally gets him alone and hugs him in congratulations.

“Oh no, is it catching? Does Eames know?” She looks concerned, and turns around as if she’s about to go hunt Eames down, but Arthur grabs her arm quickly. 

“Wait, no, I mean--” here, he pauses, blushing a little because he and Ariadne isn’t exactly close, but on the few jobs that he’s taken with her, he finds that she’s more trustworthy and reliable - and perhaps less likely to laugh at him when he admits his weakness. “It’s… I think I might actually like Eames.”

Ariadne raises her eyebrow. “Arthur, you _married_ him. Even though you didn’t actually, you know, have to.” Ariadne also knows that the whole marriage thing is a sham, and that Eames and Arthur had agreed on filing for a divorce or annulment sometime next month.

“Yeah but--” Arthur catches sight of Eames again, this time standing next to his parents and looking every bit as handsome and dashing in his suit, his face looking strangely calm, just before he turns his gaze towards Arthur, locking eyes with him.

He hears Ariadne’s snicker. “Yup, see that’s what I’m talking about. You’re sort of shitty at hiding how you feel about him, Arthur.”

Arthur turns back towards her, and is about to say something else when a familiar voice interrupts them.

“Ms. Ariadne, your observation skills are as astute as ever,” Saito is smiling at Ariadne.

In just a few strides, Eames is standing next to Arthur. “Darling, don’t be such a shy flower on our special day,” he scolds, his hand moving to slide around the back of Arthur’s waist. Arthur blushes and nearly drops his glass of very expensive champagne. “Saito, it’s been a while. How is the business? The company? Any new corporations to tear down these days?”

“There always are, Mr. Eames,” Saito tells him, all teeth. “None worth my time however.” He shakes hands with the both of them. The last time Arthur had seen him, they had been walking away from the airport, the successful inception of Robert Fisher still fresh in their minds.

“My congratulations on your marriage, by the way,” Saito says. “I have a gift for you. I hear that you have been considering the Maldives for your honeymoon.” He pulls out a thin, white envelope from the breast pocket of his suit. “Consider it part of my gratitude for your help in our previous transaction.”

Arthur gapes. “You bought us tickets to the Maldives?”

There’s a brief pause from Saito. “... I bought the Maldives, actually.”

Arthur drops the champagne glass, this time. “You-- what?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ariadne wisely calling the waiter for another glass of champagne.

Saito beams. “I hope this would be a satisfactory wedding gift for your consummation night.” 

Eames, ~~the asshole~~ Arthur’s new husband, beams in response, before patting Arthur on the bum. “Perfect, actually.”

 

*

“So,” Eames begins, when they’re both standing in the middle of the honeymoon suite in Maldives, staring at the giant-sized bed. 

(Bed, as in, _one_ bed, Arthur thinks in panic.) “Uh, we’re not… we don’t have to--”

“I could take the floor, darling,” Eames tells him gently, and Arthur pauses, before shaking his head.

“Don’t-- don’t be stupid. There’s more than enough space for the both of us.” He avoids looking at Eames, however, pretending to study the lampshade at the corner of the room. “I’m going to go wash up.” Arthur makes his escape to the bathroom, his small bag of toiletries clutched against his chest like a lifeline.

Inside the bathroom, he studies his own face in the mirror. All the way from London, he’s been sneaking glances at Eames when he thinks Eames isn’t noticing, studying the other man’s profile. Out of his wedding suit, dressed in a casual shirt with the collar opened at the chest, he looks like any typical tourist headed for the same destination - except that Arthur had found himself spending more time gazing at his lips, and perhaps the growing stubble on his chin.

It’s-- it’s stupid for him to feel this now, especially when he’s sure Eames doesn’t actually think the same way about him. After all, this was a marriage of convenience, and once their allotted month is up, they’ll both be sitting in a divorce lawyer’s office submitting their forms.

“Arthur? Is everything alright?” he hears from outside the bathroom. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen asleep in the tub now, darling, I promise you it’s not as comfortable as television makes it seem,” he adds, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine, Eames,” he calls out. “Just give me a few more minutes.” He reaches for his bag.

When he emerges from the bathroom, minutes later, Eames is sitting on the bed, flipping through the tv channels. “There’s even HBO, look,” Eames tells him gleefully, looking every bit like an excited child on Christmas Day, and even Arthur can’t help but grin at this.

He catches the expression on Eames’ face, just then. He’s gazing at Arthur intently, at the lower part of his face. “What?” Arthur asks, feeling curious. “Did I miss a spot?” He reaches up and touches his chin, feeling the skin curiously in case he hadn’t washed away the suds. “Where is it?”

“Here, here, come here,” Eames says, and then he’s cupping Arthur’s chin, and then he’s leaning down; Arthur _feels_ , rather than hears, the words, “I’m sorry, darling, but I need to--” and then he’s kissing Arthur on the mouth, soft, sweet, and _perfect_.

Arthur stands there, frozen for a long moment, and then kisses him back.

 

*

Six months later, they run into Ariadne who eyes their clasped hands - or more noticeably, the wedding bands glinting under the lights of the Lourve. “So, I guess there was no divorce?”

Eames kisses her on both cheeks in a way of greeting as Arthur’s face turns red. “Oh, there was, but then we both got pissed in Vegas and got married again,” he tells her, as Arthur turns another shade of Mortified and Embarrassed. 

“I didn’t want the trouble of filling up all the paperwork again,” Arthur tells Ariadne weakly. 

Eames pats him on the arm comfortingly. “He threatened to shoot me if I left him. How could I deny such true love?”

“I could still shoot you,” Arthur grumbles, but Ariadne sees the way he looks at Eames, the stiff expression on his face giving way to one that’s soft, almost fond. “I know where you keep your gun.”

Eames leers.

“Not _that_ gun,” Arthur adds desperately, the Mortified look returning to his face.

“Since you got married again,” Ariadne interrupts, taking pity on him, “I suppose Saito gave you another island as your wedding gift?”

Arthur blinks, and glances behind him, where the Lourve is lit up beautifully against the Paris backdrop. “It’s not exactly an island….”

Eames beams.

 

 

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this is all clocks’s fault I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY


End file.
